


catching signals that sound in the dark, or: a journey through dreambubbles

by RogerMexico



Category: Homestuck
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-10-23
Updated: 2013-10-22
Packaged: 2017-12-30 05:22:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,683
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1014623
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RogerMexico/pseuds/RogerMexico
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>and all you did was waiting til the point when you let go</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. i. watching spirals of white softly flow

**Author's Note:**

> this was once going to be a seven chapter epic, but i lost momentum, and then i lost interest, and then it moldered in my hard drive for a year or so. anyway, here's what i had.  
> thanks to lantadyme for beta reading.

In the non-space that exists between all universes lie the dream bubbles. Created by the Noble Circle, they drift through the void, home to the dreaming dead as they wander through the memories of what once was and what once wasn’t. Entire lives are lived out in worlds that might have been, worlds that once were but are now lost and forgotten. But THEY remember.

\---

You've been stuck on this repulsive shithole of a rock for nearly half a sweep now. Strider and Lalonde tell you it's been a year, but you'll rip off your shame globes and prostrate yourself before the Condesce before you deign to use their pan-numbingly stupid Earth terminology. Regardless, it’s been (a year) _half a sweep_ since those smug humans came flying out of a giant star into your own little corner of hell. Half a sweep of living in close quarters with six of the last eight people left alive in the world. Half a sweep of Kanaya and Lalonde decorating the endless hallways, half a sweep of Strider and Terezi scribbling with chalk on every available surface. Half a sweep of you hiding your murderous clown moirail from an undead glowing vampire girl who wants to chainsaw him in half.

You want to scream into the void until you run out of breath and then fly away into space like the useless sack of shit you are. 

You are currently back in your room, trying to kill your past self with the sheer power of your finely honed hatred. That grubfucker not only humiliated you by getting conned into an asinine game of human “penis ouija”, but also managed to get you suplexed into a table. That bastard Strider had to go and shit all over your perfectly reasonable plan for a Terezi timeshare, and now you're back where you started. Why did the entire remnants of the human race have to be a pair of insufferable, pasty-skinned assholes and a couple of buck-toothed morons?

Lines of bright green text swim unbidden to the forefront of your thoughts.   
Okay, maybe she was alright. Harley was the only one you could really communicate with. No-one else could understand the intricacies of temporally-based self-hatred. You hate admitting it to yourself, but you really kind of miss talking to her, despite that stupid "password" hoofbeastshit she insisted upon. It was nice having someone to talk to who not only didn’t take your shit, but instead threw it back in your face. It was almost like your arguments with yourself, except they were fun and enjoyable, as opposed to self-defeating sandpapery circlejerks.

You wonder what she's up to.

\---

It's been a long year. Flying on a battleship through an empty greenish void doesn’t really make for memorable scenery, and golden corridors, get pretty dang old after a while. It’s not like there’s nobody to talk to—you do have the combined populations of five planets along for the ride—but for someone who grew up in isolation, twelve months in close quarters with a crew of thousands gets a little trying. You miss your island. You miss your little bedroom with its view of the ocean. You miss your grandpa.

You miss Bec.

You never thought you’d lose him. He was an immortal demi-dog who’d been alive for millenia, and he was your very best friend. John and Davesprite are great and all, but they don’t understand you the way Bec did. They don’t know what to do during those times where you slip into despair over the loss of your island, your life, your friends, and your entire damn planet. John tries to cheer you up with jokes, magic tricks, and shitty video games. Davesprite can’t handle tears—he just clams up. They don’t understand that what you really need is someone to grab you by the collar and shake, someone to tell you that you need to pull yourself together because your self-pity is making them physically ill.

Once upon a time you knew someone like that.

You wonder where he is.

\---

The dream bubbles are home to the dead and forgotten, but they are not the only inhabitants. The living wander amongst the spectres of half-remembered streets and buildings, lost in worlds of their own creation. Why not follow these dreamers, unaware of their own dreaming? It will be amusing, surely.

Now, _sleep_.


	2. ii. no reason to grieve

ii. there’s no reason to grieve

 

Third alleyway on the left, coming up... _NOW_. Jump the dustbins, kicking them behind you as you go, full tilt down until you can slip into the adjoining alley _here_. Now a quick glance over the shoulder...no-one behind you, that’s good...now _JUMP_ for the ladder, up the fire escape onto the roof, leap to the next building. Into the vent, pull the grate closed behind you. Stay low, don’t want to hit horns on wall, sound might give you away. Then just a _drop_ into the broom closet and crouch down behind some crates while you wait to regain your breath. Might as well clean the flecked blood off your glasses while you’re at it. Alright, now you’re going to have to...wait, is that the door handle turning? Shit shit shit shit _shiii-_

 

“What the fuck are you doing in here?”

 

Your name is Jayede Harley and you are royally fucked.

 

\---

 

“I asked you what the fuck you’re doing in my closet, you lunatic!”

 

Oh thank god, he’s just a maintenance worker.

 

“I was looking for supplies, you jackhole! The door slammed shut behind me and I couldn’t find my way out.” The look he gives you is one that most people would describe as “withering”, but you recognize it as a professional-grade “do you think I’m fucking stupid” glare. You sigh. “C’mon, just let me out.” You try to shove past him, but he pushes you back, moving to block the doorway.

 

“No way! I just opened my goddamn broom closet to find some frond-slurping madwoman crouching behind the toilet paper! If you want me to let you out of here, you better fucking explain yourself!” 

 

Damn it! This asshole is going to get you caught! Your pursuers have _got_ to know you’re in the building by now, and you need a short, nubby-horned warning flag like you need a hole in the pan. 

 

He’s not leaving you a lot of options, so you just grab him by the collar, haul him into the closet with you, and shut the door.

 

“Now listen here!” you hiss into his startled face. “I don’t have time for this hoofbeastshit, so you are going to shut the fuck up and let me walk out of here!”

 

Any reply he might make is drowned out as the sudden pounding of jackboots resonates from the floors above. Looks like your time is up.

 

“They’re here for you, aren’t they,” he says quietly, giving you a calculating look. The way he says it, you know it’s a statement and not a question. Frankly, you’re pretty surprised he put two and two together so fast. Apparently this little janitor isn’t as stupid as he looks.

 

“Yes.”

 

“Well come on, you’re not going to escape by standing in a closet playing with your globes. Follow me.”

 

He opens the door, steps out, and looks up and down the hallway. Then he grabs your hand and drags you at full tilt through the halls behind him.

 

\---

 

The two of you run through hallway after hallway, staircase after staircase, until you are completely lost. It’s all you can do to keep following the janitor, hoping that he knows what the fuck he’s doing.

 

Finally, as the two of you dash madly through some sort of subbasement, you run into a dead end. No more doors, no more stairs, just three concrete walls and a few sad-looking vending machines stocked with those weird novelty sodas nobody drinks anymore. Oh, and the treacherous little shit of a janitor who led you into this trap. You nearly flip your shit, but he shooshes you and walks up to the one of the vending machines lining the wall. A quick combination of button presses results in...a free can of soda? He offers it to you, but when he meets your death glare, he rolls his eyes and hits a few more buttons. The machine swings forward to reveal a narrow corridor running into the distance. He pushes you through and pulls the hidden door shut behind him. You make to continue down the secret passage, but a tug on your pants leg has you turn around to find your companion sitting on the floor, motioning for you to join him. Reluctantly, you sink down the wall to sit, secretly relishing the opportunity to rest.

 

You stare at the little janitor sitting across from you, examining him in the glare of the bare bulbs strung periodically along the tunnel’s length. He’s drinking his free soda as though he finds its existence to be a personal affront, and quite pointedly _not_ paying any attention to you. What is this jerk’s problem? You have a feeling this is going to be something you’re going to have to approach delicately.

 

“Hey asshole!” you shout. He gives you a look and goes back to his drink. “I’m talking to you, dammit! How the hell did you know these tunnels were here?”

 

“I have a better idea,” he says without looking up. “How about you tell me why I shouldn’t regret helping some criminal that I found skulking in my supply closet?”

 

“I’m not a criminal, you dick!”

 

“Oh of course not. You’re just so unbelievably stupid that you managed to accidentally piss off the cops and then blunder through a locked door into a broom cupboard! Well fuck me for making assumptions!”

 

“No, dammnit! What the hell is wrong with you? I’m not an idiot and I’m _not_ a criminal!”

 

He snorts and finishes off his drink, throwing the can over his shoulder. Then, faster than you can react, he has you pinned up against the wall with a pistol—you swear he didn’t have one a second ago—pressed up against your forehead. You panic, mind focused on the feeling of cold gunmetal against the skin of your forehead. Then your training takes over and your mind clears, at which point a single question arises: _Just who the hell is this guy?_

 

“Barcode. Now.” he hisses. Too startled to resist, you hold out your wrist with its intricate cross-hatched grid. He flips his sleeve up as well, passes his wrist over yours, and then holds it next to your arm so you can see both barcodes. Slowly, the magnetic ink in each tattoo rearranges itself into a simple sigil before returning to its original state. Finally, things click into place. The janitor seems to draw the same conclusion, and he lowers his weapon.

 

You shake his hand. “Operative Jayede Harley, District 413-Beta,” you say, earning a nod of recognition.

 

“Karkat Vantas. Let’s get you out of here.”

 

\---

 

 

As you follow Vantas through the tunnels, you take the opportunity to get a better look at him. Only now are you starting to see hints that he’s more than a simple janitor—after the stunt with the barcodes you know you’re dealing with a fellow member of the Resistance. There’s something about him, though. Something intangible about the way he carries himself, now that he isn’t hiding his true identity, that tells you that he’s not just an average undercover operative. No, he’s something else entirely.

 

Eventually, Vantas leads you into a section of the underground that you recognize, and that’s when you realize that you are headed to HQ. HQ, as in “Headquarters for the whole damn Resistance” as in “place you’ve only been twice on very special occasions” as in “ _who the fuck is this guy?”_ Your shock is only compounded when you actually arrive at the building and the guards just wave the two of you on through. You glance over at Vantas again, but he doesn’t react other than to acknowledge the guards as he walks into the building. You hurry in after him.

 

Vantas walks through the halls of Headquarters with carelessness born of familiarity. You catch him nodding in greeting to several trolls that you recognize from training as high-ranking cell commanders. A horrifying feeling of unwilling comprehension is starting to creep up on you—you’ve made an ass of yourself in front of a high-ranking officer—possibly one of _the_ highest ranking officers in the whole damn Resistance. You are _so_ going to get busted down for this shit. Your suspicions are suddenly and horribly confirmed as the two of you come to a halt right in front of what is clearly labeled as the office of The Sergeant. The Sergeant, as in the leader of the whole fucking Resistance. Oh my god, you are so fucked. Vantas brings you in, closing the door behind the two of you. You shrink in on yourself, looking around the room for the almost mythical figure who is about to hand you your ass.

 

It isn’t until Vantas walks over and sits down on top of The Sergeant’s desk that you realize you’ve made yet another serious error in judgement.

 

\---

“You!” you manage to sputter. “You’re The Sergeant?”

 

This can’t be happening. Everyone knows that The Sergeant is a great and charismatic man—the first man to stand against the tyranny of the Republic and live. What you’ve got here is a nubby-horned little shit of a janitor. The man that you’ve idolized for years—that you’ve pledged your service and life to—is no older than you are, as well as being a whole head shorter and looking like he’s never heard of combs. Talk about crushed expectations. If you weren’t so shocked you’d almost be able to hear your dreams shattering.

 

“What do you want me to say?” mutters Vantas. He almost sounds embarrassed. “I was a sergeant in the Freedom Guard. I saw the horrible shit our government was doing firsthand, and it made me sick to my fucking bilesack so I said ‘enough’. You know all the damn stories.”

 

“So do you have...you know...” You gesture over your shoulder.

 

“Yeah,” he sighs. He sheds his coveralls and pulls his shirt up so you can see his back. There, marked in the ugly dark grey of burn scars, is the brand: The Shackles of the Traitor, the first troll to openly rebel against the Republic. The brand from which your Resistance takes its symbol. When he turns to face you again, you can see the spectre of his captivity haunting his features. You decide it would probably be a good idea to stop asking him about his past. 

 

“Alright,” says Vantas, suddenly all business. “Report. I want to know how you fucked up and what I’m going to have to do to clean up your mess.”

 

You bristle at that. “I’ll have you know that I almost never screw up,” you say coldly. “This was a fluke, and I assure you it won’t happen again.”

 

“I know,” Vantas says. “That’s why I want to know what happened.” He raises a hand as you open your mouth again. “Before you ask, I make it a point to know about the trolls under my command. I’ve seen your file Harley, and you’re a damned good operative. Now tell me what happened.”

 

“Alright,” you sigh, trying to hide your blush at the compliment. “I got the assignment, so I headed into town...”

 

\---

 

_Hivestem 1025, number 1111-A. You check your palmtop again. Yep, right address. Okay, quick in-and-out. Nothing fancy. Just a routine assassination, nothing you haven’t done before. According to the mission briefing, the target is a Council member spearheading the push for a more brutal application of the police force. If you take him out, the attempt will crumble and the rest of the Council members will fall back to infighting. You pull out one of your lockpicks and pop the deadbolt on his apartment door. Lights out, no signs of movement. He’s asleep. Good._

 

_You slip into his respiteblock, taking care not to make excessive noise. You can see him asleep in his bed. In one swift movement you grab his pillow, place it over his head, and fire a few shots into his pan. That’s when the lights click on. The Council member is cowering against the wall, furiously pressing the security call button. You just shot a decoy. Shit._

 

_You can already hear the police pounding down the stairs from the closest security station. It’s time to go. You put a few rounds into the Council member’s bloodpusher before he has time to react and dash out of the room, swapping magazines as you run. You burst through the door as the cops make it to your landing. You pistol whip the closest one in the face before jumping over the railing to the stair flight below. The next minutes are a mad dash out of the hivestem and through the streets, until you find yourself in the closet of a certain nubby-horned janitor._

 

\---

 

“...and then I was in your closet,” you finish.

 

“Yeah, I remember that part.”

 

“Okay, now I have a question,” you say. “If you’re really the Sergeant, what the hell are you doing working as a janitor? I mean, I’m pretty sure that building is owned by a restaurant chain! It’s not like the Resistance needs you to steal their secret fried cluckbeast recipe!”

 

Vantas suddenly looks embarassed. “It’s my job,” he mutters.

 

“What?”

 

“It’s my job, okay? I don’t know if you considered this, but being the leader of a secret underground Resistance movement doesn’t pay very well! I have to eat, don’t I?”

 

Your unsuccessful attempts to stifle your laughter only make him look more embarassed. “Look,” he says, “enough about my miserable failure of a life. Like I said, I’ve seen your file, and you’re a damned good operative. One of the best, probably.” You open your mouth to protest. “No, shut up and listen,” Vantas interrupts, holding up a hand. “I’ve been thinking it’s about time that we stopped skulking about underground playing with our bulges and started actually fucking doing something. However, I can’t do this entire thing alone. I need someone with the capacity for basic reasoning by my side, and you’re pretty much the only troll in the whole damn resistance who posses that ability. Call it serendipity, call it dumb luck, call it whatever, but I’m damn thankful I ran into you tonight. I need your help, Harley.”

 

If you were the melodramatic type, your later recollections of this moment would probably include some hoofbeastshit about your heart stopping or something of the sort. Unfortunately for your would-be biographers, you are Jayede Harley, 136 cm of solid practicality, so you just nod and say, “Okay, let’s get started!”

 

And boy do you ever.

 

\---

 

It’s the beginning of a partnership that will probably have Troll Lifetime movies made about it or something. Vantas and Harley, the Sergeant and his Corporal, the Dynamic Duo of Domestic Terrorism. Nothing is safe from you and your revolutionaries. Vantas is the face of the movement, its spiritual leader. Despite his diminutive stature and near-permanent combination of scowl and bedhead, he exudes a weird sort of raw charisma, and even through your most bitter failures he is there, holding the Rebellion together through sheer force of personality. You are his right-hand troll, his primary tactician, and when things get to be much for Karkat, you’re right there for him, because if he falters, the whole damn Rebellion collapses. And so the two of you take down institution after institution, liberating political prisons, “re-education centers”, and those appalling hell-holes masquerading as mental hospitals. You come to rely on each other, and a close friendship blossoms in the eternal shit-storm of your lives. You never thought you’d be so close to the Sergeant himself, but to be honest, you really aren’t. You don’t even really know him. You do know Karkat Vantas, janitor, a troll who wants nothing more to fight injustice and tyranny, but is afraid that he just isn’t good enough. He’s tiny, and angry, and for all his bluster he really just wants to help people. He’s barely twelve sweeps and he’s already the reluctant leader of an entire revolution.

 

You think you pity him.

 

That’s why, on the day that they finally catch him, you make sure you’re right at his side.

 

\---

 

The trial was a farce. Everyone knew that going in, even Karkat, but that didn’t stop him from making one of the most impassioned speeches you’ve ever heard or read. His rage was incandescent, burning fast and hot, and over far too soon. Just like your revolution. Just like his life. With a speech like that, the rebellion has a chance of surviving. You two, on the other hand, do not.

 

It doesn’t really matter now.

 

Your name is Jayede Harley. You are a few perigees short of your twelfth wriggling day, and you die early one cold night during the dark season, tied to a post next to the only troll who will ever truly mourn your passing. 

 

The ropes binding your wrists chafe. You’d think they’d at least use the ususal hi-tech restraints, but they’re going full-on frontier-style military execution here. It even looks like the firing squad’s rifles are bolt-action. A pageant for the masses. What a way to go.

 

You look over at Karkat, bound to the post next to you. He’s no longer the fit revolutionary he once was—six months in a shit-hole prison will do that to a troll. For that matter, you don’t look so hot yourself. The one thing they couldn’t take from him, however, is his stare. It still shoots out from under his bristling eyebrows. It’s the stare of a martyr, and it’s making your executioners nervous.

 

Suddenly, he turns to you.

 

“Listen, Harley...Jayede,” he says. “I should have told you this sooner, but we were both kinda busy with the whole revolution thing. Anyway, I need to tell you now, or I’m going to spend my eternal rest trying to throttle myself. You are one of the most dangerously impulsive people I’ve ever met. You can’t go one week without doing something so monumentally stupid and irresponsible that I have to rip my fucking hair out cleaning up after you. You are brash, you have no concept of tact, and I am about to die a happy troll knowing I’ll never have to watch you massacre another meal. Seriously, did you never learn to use silverware?” He takes a deep breath. “Sorry, I got a little sidetracked there. Jayede, the point I’m trying to make here is that I pity you. Like, a lot,” he finishes lamely.

 

At first you think the thin veil of early snowfall is obscuring your view. It’s not until you feel a drip on your face that you realize you’re crying.

 

“Oh Karkat, you insufferable romantic,” you choke out. “I pity you so fucking much. If you get to hell before me, you’d better wait up or I’m going to kick you in the shame globes!”

 

You take his hand. He’s crying too.

 

The leader of the firing squad raises his arm.

 

_BANG_


	3. iii. in the parlor with a moon across her face

iii. in the parlor with a moon across her face

 

“May I have this dance, sir?”

 

You shake your head stiffly. If you have to shuffle your way through another quadrille, you think you just might scream. “I’m sorry miss, I’m just the vicar’s son. I’m not much one for dancing. The last time I attempted a waltz I tripped over my own feet and fell on Lady Maryam.”

 

“Oh come on you silly, it’ll be fun! We’re doing Sir Roger de Coverley! Don’t tell me you don’t know that one.”

 

You look up at your tormentor. She’s not much older than you. Her gown is an extravagant affair of bright green chiffon, but she seems ill at ease in it, as if unused to such finery. A little too tall to be a society beauty, with buck teeth and enormous spectacles. 

 

Oh no. She’s attractive.

 

“If you insist,” you grumble.

 

“I do!”

 

The two of you move out onto the dance floor and into the form.

 

“I didn’t quite catch your name earlier,” you say to her as the two of you weave back and forth.

 

“I’m Jade Harley,” she says. “I’m Jacob’s cousin from Wales! I’ve come to live with his family now that my grandfather is dead.” 

 

Another English running around Warwickshire. Lovely. Maybe if you’re lucky a plague of locusts will be next.

 

“So you’re the vicar’s son, then,” she asks as you dance across the parquet floor, passing another couple. “It’s not often you see trolls in the church!” You steel yourself against the incoming derrogatory remarks, but instead she just says, “I think that’s quite impressive!” and leaves it at that.

 

You’re so used to people looking down on you for being a troll, or being a lowblood, or being the son of a country vicar—nevermind that your father’s parish is one of the most distinguished in all of Warwickshire—that you really don’t know how to respond. You essay a simple “thank you” and she smiles at you.

 

If anyone were to ask you later, you would adamantly deny that your bloodpusher skipped a beat, but it does, and you almost trip over your feet. Miss Harley giggles, and you focus on your footwork for the rest of the dance.

 

Afterwards the two of you retire to a table and Miss Harley, who insists you call her Jade, tells you about her life in Wales. Apparently her grandfather was a kind (if rather indulgent) industrialist, and she spent most of her childhood running wild around Swansea with her dogs. She laments the fact that she was only able to bring one of her canine companions to Felt Manor, a particularly large and white specimen named Faraday, after (as Jade informs you) a chap who is making great strides in the field of magnetism. You gather that she intended to skip the party and roam the grounds with Faraday until Lady English put her foot down and insisted that Jade make an effort to present herself to the company. All this information is imparted to you in a near-breathless rush, completely rebuffing your attempts to get a word in edgewise. Eventually you manage to interrupt her tirade on the subject of Lady English—who Jade opines is “tyrannical!” and “an arse!!!”—by the simple expedient of leaving to get drinks.

 

As you pour two glasses of sherry (taking a generous swig from yours before refilling it), you wonder exactly what sin you committed to be unfortunate enough to be singled out by such a creature as Jade Harley. She is, without a doubt, the strangest individual you have met in your entire life. If you’re honest with yourself, it’s a breath of fresh air. Your father’s parishioners are a pleasant lot, but Coleshill isn’t exactly known for being the site of interesting occurences.

 

You return to Miss Harley and hand her a drink, which she manages to drain in one go. Shaking off your astonishment at this display, you take another sip of your own sherry as Jade puts her glass back on the table. She turns to survey the dance floor for a while, and you’ve just come to the decision that this would be the perfect moment to abscond from the room—and possibly the grounds—when she suddenly swivels back around and looks you straight in the eye. You nearly choke on your drink.

 

“Mister Vantas,” she says. “Would you like to join me in getting the hell out of here?”

 

Now you’re in quite the dilemma. You have two choices: option the first, escape this dismal cesspit of a party, but in the company of a madwoman, or option the second, which involves remaining at your table and possibly having to suffer from another one of that imbecile Egbert’s discussions on contemporary theatre. Miss Harley looks at you expectantly, so you choose the hitherto unknown third option of excusing yourself to refill your drink and then fleeing through the door and out into the night.

 

\---

 

Technically that was very improper of you, but as technically you aren’t a member of the upper classes, you can’t really be arsed to care. You have enough trouble in your life without the introduction of a foul-mouthed madwoman to further muddy the waters, and you have the feeling that Miss Harley is the sort that causes preposterous amounts of turbulence. 

 

The worst part is you know that you are far from rid of her. You’ve read too many romance novels to expect that you’re shot of her—she’s too weird. Glumly, you realize that you’ll probably accidentally bump into her at the market or something equally serendipitous within the week. And of course, there’s the fact that she’s the rare mixture of irritating and attractive that guarantees the two of you will fall in love. 

 

As you shuffle back to Coleshill through the mid-December chill, you make a silent promise to fling yourself into the river Blythe before any rubbish of that sort can occur.

 

\---

 

Life is not a novel, and therefore is unbound by the laws of narrative causality. Accordingly, you do not run into Miss Harley at the market, nor while running errands through town, nor at any other location in which the main characters of a romance novel might encounter each other. As a matter of fact, you don’t see her for another six months, when you arrive back from university only to be dragged off by your father (despite your vehement protests) to another interminable party at Felt Manor.

 

The party’s just as wretched as your memory of the last one. The horrid green color the Englishes have done up their walls in continues to make you wish for the sudden onset of cataracts. Egbert talks at you for a good half hour, and then tries to interest you in the amateur theatre troupe he’s trying to form, and it takes all your self-restraint to refrain from striking him full in the face. The younger Lord English runs around on the tables, re-enacting his most recent hunting expedition—you secretly hope that he twists an ankle. The Lalondes put in an appearance, and both Lady Lalonde and that insufferable son of hers drain two decanters of sherry between them before drunkenly harassing the other guests. You are considering the feasability of stringing yourself up by your own cravat when you are suddenly interrupted by a chipper “Good evening, grouchy!” You spin around to find yourself face to face with who else but Jade Harley.

 

“Don’t you have any concept of personal space?” you manage to choke out.

 

“No!” she replies cheerfully, sitting down next to you. You are unable to fully supress the high-pitched shriek of frustration that escapes your protein chute, but luckily she doesn’t seem to notice.

 

Your treacherous subconscious notices that she is currently wearing a _very_ nice dress. It’s black with a faint green trim, and it reminds you of laying in the fields as a child and watching the night sky. Also, it’s a very daring, form fitting cut, and you are trying very hard not to ogle what appear to be a very nice pair of legs. To be completely truthful, never before have you been this self-consious of your own clothing—your tailcoat, worn shiny at the elbows; your fraying cravat; your battered boots, disguising the fact that you can’t really afford stockings. Kanaya has offered numerous times to design you a new outfit for free, but your past self was too damned proud to accept that sort of charity. Looking back, it’s quite clear to see that past you was a stubborn ass, and most likely incredibly unattractive and smelly to boot. 

 

Miss Harley waves a hand in front of your face, putting a sudden end to your musings. “Excuse meeeee! Are you just going to be a huge bore and stare into space all night, because I’m sure Cousin John would love to tell you more about his opinions on the works of the late Mr. Goldsmith!”

 

“Can’t a man have a moment to mentally list all the shortcomings of his past self?” you splutter. “Besides, if I have to listen to Egbert blabber on _one more time_ about how Goldsmith’s work is superior to that of Sir Walter Scott’s—which, mind you, _it is not_ —then I shall shoot screaming off into the atmosphere!”

 

Jade, being the insufferable buttlass that she is, just _laughs_ at your outburst and says, “Oh, you’re adorable!”

 

That’s torn it.

 

“I AM NOT ADORABLE!” you screech at her.

 

The gentle murmur of background conversation abruptly ceases. Your face flushes a bright red as you realize the whole room is staring at you. The only sound is Lady Roxanne snoring messily into her drink.

 

After a very uncomfortable thirty seconds, during which you make an admirable attempt to explode your own head with pure self-hatred, you decide that your only recourse is to dramatically storm out of the room. You turn on your heel, and when Jade grabs your wrist with a “Karkat, wait!” you just keep walking. Through lots of experience, you’ve found that’s the best way to make a dramatic exit—don’t stop for anything. You’ll never forget the time you stopped halfway to your cousin’s front door to deliver a final crushing rejoinder and she took the opportunity to lick your face.

 

You make it out the door and onto the front lawn before Jade catches up with you. You honestly didn’t expect her to chase after you. You’re not quite sure how this fits in with your exit strategy—you’re still on the grounds, but you’re out the door, and she made an effort to catch you, so technically you’ve already completed the flourish and it might be okay to stop.

 

You decide it’s okay to stop. Years from now, you’ll realize that your life would be a lot less complicated if you’d just kept walking. 

 

“Karkat!” cries Jade as she rushes towards you. “I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings like that! It’s just that you’re so...cute,” she finishes lamely. You have to make a conscious effort to not gape at her. Does this girl have any concept of tact? “When you get all cranky I just want to ruffle your hair! It’s adorable!”

 

Alright, that’s a definite no on the tact.

 

“For the last time,” you hiss through clenched teeth, “I am _not_ adorable. If anything, I’m adora...” You stop to think for a moment. “No, there is no form of the word ‘adorable’ that could possibly apply to me! I am a serious adult, not some diaper-poop wiggler covered in his own spit-up, and I expect to be taken seriously!”

 

Jade gives you a calculating look. “Let me rephrase then,” she says, “you are a serious adult who is absolutely above throwing tantrums in front of an entire room full of people.” You’re about to scream at her again when she adds, “And you’re goddamn handsome, if I do say so myself.”

 

Then she kisses you.

 

Oh _fuck_.

 

\---

 

It’s several hours later, and you’re curled up on your bed, clutching your pillow and re-evaluating your life.

 

You are the son of a country vicar, and a troll, and your blood is so far to the low end of the hæmospectrum that it slipped and fell off—basically, you are a nobody compared to Jade Harley. No, wait, you’re worse than that. You’re like an unsightly pustule on the face of high society. You’re only invited to fancy balls grudginly, as a societal obligation. Honestly if you had any say you’d just stay home, but your father’s always going on about your obligation to society and other such boring drivel. 

 

Wonderful, you’ve gone off on a tangent again.

 

The point is, you’re basically rubbish compared to Jade, _so why did she kiss you?_ And not just once— _a whole bunch of times_. You are in so much trouble. What are you going to do? She obviously likes you, and you’re beginning to fear you like her too, and it’s never going to work out! Your life is being hijacked by the plot of an Austen novel! 

 

_This is all her fault!_

 

Well, her and that gormless worm that is your past self. If he’d just run away from the crazy lady like any sane person would, you wouldn’t be stuck in the dreadful situation of falling in love above your class. Now it’s too late and you’re doomed to a lifetime of heartbreak and dramatic pining. You might as well just start wasting away now and get it over with. You’ll show them. 

 

Unfortunately, being angry has made you tired, and you drift off to sleep before you can show anything to anyone.

 

\---

 

The return of university a few weeks later puts an abrupt stop to your half baked plans of dressing all in black veils and leaping from the nearest bridge. You bury yourself in your studies as usual, grimly determined that this semester you’ll prove to those elitist English masters that you really are a brilliant writer, and not just a shoddy imitator of Spenser and Scott. Jade Harley all but slips from your mind as you sit in your garret room, feverishly putting pen to paper. Your quarters are miserably cold, almost as if they’re attempting to turn you into the cliché suffering student. Brilliant but misunderstood, lives in a drafty garret—next thing you know you’ll go consumptive and die dramatically in the street.

 

An unexpected knock at the door startles you from your musings. You rise from your desk, cross your tiny apartment, undo the latch, and open the door. At least, that’s what you had planned on doing. In reality, you only make it as far as undoing the latch before the door bursts open to reveal a terrifying rictus grin. “Goodness Karkat, you certainly seem to be doing well for yourself!” it cackles. “Is that cabbage stew I smell?”

 

That voice is anathema to your eardrums. You would take death by consumption over a surprise visit from your cousin any day.

 

“Terezi,” you groan, “what are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be at university, terrifying underclassmen?”

 

“But Glasgow is all wet ash grey at this time of year. Dull, dull, dull! Besides, who says I need a reason to see my favourite cousin?” She suddenly leans forward and drags her long tongue from your jaw to your temple. You shudder in revulsion as she cackles again. “And of course, I could never resist that cherry-red allure!”

 

You wipe your face on your shirtsleeve. “As utterly _overjoyed_ as I am to see your smiling visage haunting my threshold, I am _incredibly_ busy with my studies, so will you kindly get out of my room and go ruin someone else’s life?” You make to shut the door on her, but she wedges her boot in the jamb and pushes past you.

 

“Cousin Vantas, we both know that is utter shite!” She smirks at you. “It is currently half-past three on a Saturday afternoon. Judging by the pace you usually rush through your studies, you’ve been finished for upwards of five hours, so the sheets of vanilla and liquorice I smell by the window are most likely your sad attempts to pen the next great historical romance novel. Furthermore, I can smell salty candy tear stains, so I am going to guess that so far your manuscript is utter bollocks. Am I right?”

 

“Firstly, Terezi, that is _none of your bloody business_!” You’re seething now, due in no small part to the fact that she is, as usual, absolutely correct. “And secondly, you can go straight to Hell because my novel is going to be brilliant!”

 

“Firstly, Karkat, _language_!” she says, mockingly. “If your dear old father could hear you now he’d have a conniption! Secondly, you are convinced that you are going to single-handedly revive Spenserian diction. Therefore, your novel is bollocks! QED.”

 

“If Sir Walter Scott can bring back Spenserian stanza, I can make his diction popular again. Also, I hope you die in a house fire.”

  
“Duly noted, Councillor Vantas. If the opportunity ever presents itself, I will certainly make sure to take full advantage. Regardless, your abysmal attempt at writing chivalric romance is not the reason behind my visit. You see, I seem to have heard a rather intriguing rumor!” 

 

You are suddenly afraid. Judging by the fact that her already face-splitting grin has grown to improbable proportions, there’s no way this is going to turn out well.

 

“I’ve heard that you made quite the scene at Felt Manor a few months ago! Not only that, but you were later spotted engaging in sloppy interspecies makeouts with one particular Welsh madwoman!” Terezi cackles. “My sources tell me that buttocks were indeed firmly clasped!”

 

You’d offer a rebuttal, but you can’t think clearly with your rising blush making an admirable attempt to set your hair alight. You wish Terezi had interests other than amateur detective work and embarassing you, or that at the very least they weren’t so closely linked.

 

“What’s the matter, Karkles? Is someone in _luuuurve_?”

 

“I _am not_! Besides,” you grumble, “why would a rich heiress want anything to do with someone like me? She was probably just trying to wind me up.”

 

Terezi’s rictus grin is suddenly replaced by an almost sympathetic expression. “Listen to me. There is nothing wrong with you. Your outside appearance doesn’t matter—what does matter is that you’re beautiful on the inside. I see that, and I’m sure Harley sees that, so don’t beat yourself up about it.”

 

“Really?” you ask, somewhat reassured by her unexpected kindness.

 

“No!” she cackles. “You know what you need to do, Karkat? You need to stop crying like a wiggler about how hard and horrible your life is and actually fucking do something about it! I have it on very good authority that that girl legitimately likes you! Now are you going to keep weeping all over your purple prose, or are you going to buck up and talk to her?”

 

Time seems to slow as your room draws back into the distance. You can feel your entire life narrowing down to this one point in time, this one decision. You hope to God you don’t mess it up. You _can’t_ mess it up—your entire future is riding on what you do _right now_ but _you can’t think of anything to say!_

 

“I…I need some time to think about it,” you finally manage.

 

You messed it up.

 

“I see.” Her mouth twists strangely. Suddenly the grin reappears. “Alright then, Karkat. If you’re going to be a wiggler about this, I have no choice but to deliver an ultimatum! Holidays start in two weeks, yes? And I do believe that the Englishes’ will be holding another party soon afterwards! So you are going to go to march up to Jade Harley and talk to her about what happened, and if I don’t hear from my informant that you went through with it, why, next time I’m in Edinburgh I just might let it slip to a certain John Egbert that you are not only madly in love with him, but also interested in helping out with his amateur theatre troupe! Do I make myself clear?”

 

Wow, this is it! Your life is finally over! Fabulous! Stupendous! No matter what you do, you are royally _fucked!_ You can’t help but let out a little giggle at the absurdity of it all.

 

“Karkat?” asks Terezi, “did you hear what I just said?” Her brow furrows with concern as your giggling suddenly errupts into uncontrolled laughter.

 

“I sure did!” you shriek maniacally. You can feel yourself teetering on the edge of breakdown. “You’ve just made everything so simple! Either I ruin my own life, or you’ll do it for me! Incredible! I am just so lucky to have a cousin like you! I am _overjoyed_ that I thought it would be a good idea to open my door! Now if you’ll excuse me I’m going to jump out this window!”

 

Terezi slaps you, hard.

 

Unfazed, you keep laughing hysterically and wave your hands about in front of her face.

 

She slaps you again, and then once more for good measure. When that doesn’t work, she just keeps on slapping you over and over again until the hysterical laughter turns to hysterical sobbing. You fling your arms around her and cry into her shoulder until you come to your senses and realize how you’re behaving.

 

You pull back as your shoulders slump in defeat. “Fine. I’ll talk to her. Maybe if I’m lucky I’ll be struck down by lightning halfway through and save everyone the embarrassment.”

 

“That’s the spirit!” cackles Terezi. You jump as she smacks you on the behind. She walks out of your room, and even after the door closes you can still hear the muffled sound of her demented laughter.

 

\--- 

 

Time marches onward in that manner that seems unique to university students. Each day seems interminable, lecture after lecture and then essay after essay, an endless line stretching off into a dreary future. You manage to squeeze in some more work on your novel, but opportunities are few and far between. You come back to your garret and fall asleep over the pages of your manuscript more times than you’d care to admit, but while the individual days drags on, the weeks fly past and before you know it you’re up to your protein chute in exams. You make it through those in one piece, much to your chagrin, because now the holidays are staring you straight in the face with a wicked grin that is all-too-familiar.

 

The train pulls up at Coleshill, and you step off into a mostly empty station, the bag containing your meager belongings slung over one shoulder. The carriage ride home is uneventful, and after a welcoming hug and a long-winded paternal lecture (you don’t bother to catch the topic), you retreat safely to your room, cross to the tiny alcove where your bed sits, and flop down with a sigh of relief.

 

Then you look up, directly into the grinning face of Terezi Pyrope.

 

You shriek, and she drops on you.

 

“Terezi!” you sputter. “How did you get up there? _What are you doing here?_ ”

 

“I braced myself against the walls!”

 

You groan with frustration and shove her off of you. “Fine. That explains _how_ you got up there, but what pan-scrambled reasoning led you to decide to play ‘spider’ in my house, in my bedroom, right over _my bloody bed?_ ”

 

“What is with this rank accusation I smell?” she snickers, draping herself back over you. You try valiantly to push her off, but it’s like trying to move a particularly determined cat. A particularly dertermined cat made of knives. “Can’t a lonely blind girl stumble her way across town to visit her dear cousin, who she cherishes more than anything else in the entire world?” You can tell by the pained expression on her face that she’s trying for contrite, but the grin keeps breaking through. Your deepening grimace seems to communicate your disbelief well enough, because she goes back to leering at full force and licks your face. “Tut tut, Karkat! So cynical. If you absolutely _must_ know, I’m here to make sure you follow through with our little bargain! Think of me as your personal guardian angel.”

 

You snort helplessly. ‘Angelic’ describes Terezi about as well as ‘impressive’ describes the younger Lord Lalonde, or ‘having good taste’ applies to Egbert. If you had a tiny shoulder Pyrope, there’d be less halos and divine ineffability, and more pointed tails and cackling.

 

“Terezi,” you sigh, “that ‘bargain’ is ridiculously one-sided. There’s no way this is going to work. I’m just going to make a fool of myself!”

 

“You’re making a fool of yourself already, stupid! There is a girl who is interested in you, and she’s not just some vapid debutante either! This is a once-in-a-lifetime chance, Karkat. I’m doing this for your own good!”

 

“Oh _fuck you turnways_ , Terezi Pyrope. Who the hell do you think you are, telling me this is for my own good? Was it ‘for their own good’ that Tavros broke his legs, or Aradia got concussed so badly it took years for her to fully recover?” Terezi blanches, face suddenly void of emotion. “Was it ‘for her own good’ that you beat Vriska so badly that they had to amputate her arm?” you hiss viciously. “Is it _‘for your own good’_ that you’re blind now?” The teal streaks running down her face tell you you’ve gotten your message across. “I thought so. Don’t you _dare_ tell me something’s for my own bloody good. I’ve seen what happens to people who get trapped in your stupid little _games_.”

 

“Fine,” she sniffs, angrily trying to stem the flow of tears, “you win, Karkat. Do what you damn well please, and thank you _so much_ for reminding me that I’m a monstrous fuck-up and I ruin the lives of everyone who trusts me, because that’s totally not something I spend every damn day trying to forget!” She pushes you away and stands up, turning her back to you. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ve just received an urgent communique from Inspector Berrybreath. I’ll be taking my leave now.”

 

Before she can take a step, you stand and catch her arm. “Wait, please don’t leave,” you say. “I wanted to make a point, but I got carried away, and I wasn’t fair to you. I brought up things that happened years ago, things that you’ve done your best to attone for ever since, and I genuinely admire that.” She turns back to look at you questioningly. “I’m really sorry, Terezi. You’re my cousin, but besides that you’re my oldest and dearest friend. I’ll happily listen to your advice any time, just _please_ don’t force me into anything and I’ll take whatever you say to heart. I promise.”

 

There’s a moment of silence where you are almost certain she’s going to just keep walking, and then her shoulders slump wearily and she joins you on the bed. You give her an awkward side-hug, and the next few mintues pass in near-silence as Terezi sniffles periodically and you study the fabric of your trousers. You’ve almost determined their thread-count when your startled by a touch on your arm. You turn to look at Terezi, who briskly wipes her face and says, “Karkat, can you tell me about your story?” 

The two of you sit up late into the night discussing your novel, and light and laughter spill from your window out into the darkened countryside.

 

\---

 

The Englishes’ winter gala isn’t for two weeks, so Terezi shows you how to bribe information out of the local children. For the low price of two lemon tarts—you’d originally bought cherry, but Terezi promptly consumed them—you learned from a snot-nosed youth that Jade Harley was a witch (unlikely), that Lady English was trying desperately—and failing—to marry Jade off (unsurprising), and that Miss Harley had on several occasions mentioned that the vicar’s son had “a cute butt!!!” (you choke on your own spit and Terezi thumps you on the back).

 

\---

 

You are fairly certain that the Englishes' winter gala wasn't for another two weeks, but yet here you are, wearing the nicest suit you could find—complete with a brilliant red ascot, at Terezi's insistance—standing terrified in front of the open doors to Felt Manor. Candlelight and music drift enticingly from inside. Terezi shivers slightly in the cool night air and attempts to push you across the threshold again, but your feet are firmly planted, and despite your meagre stature, you're still a good three or four inches taller than her. Terezi walks away, as if in surrender, but you know she's just getting a run-up so you crouch down a bit in preparation for the...wait, is that Egbert coming toward you? Terezi squeaks in surprise as her charge is interrupted by the simple expedient of you grabbing her hand and dragging her inside at speed.

 

You attempt the best approximation of a run you can without drawing undue attention, pulling Terezi behind you as you make a series of twists and turns through the halls, ears straining for the friendly “Hullo Karkat!” that will herald your doom. Somehow, though, you actually manage to reach the ballroom while avoiding the unexpected appearance of any buck-toothed ghouls, and you quickly pull your still-bewildered companion into the form.

 

Terezi quirks her mouth at you, so you just mutter “Egbert” by means of an explanation. This seems to satisfy her, as her trademark grin reappears and she suddenly flings herself into the dancing with enthusiasm. A lively country tune starts to play; Terezi capers wildly, all sharp joints and spindly limbs, and you find yourself smiling as you dance along with her. It feels so good to just relax and let go that your mood is only slightly dulled when Terezi is stolen away from you by one David Lalonde, who is sporting a truly apalling knitted hat complete with fuzzy bobble on top. As the current reel isn't part of any formal dance, you just wander from partner to partner, having a grand old time until someone snatches your hand, and you find yourself pulled into a spirited jig with Jade Harley.

 

  
“Hullo Karkat!” she says as she puts you through an astonishingly complex twirl. “I was wondering if I'd see you tonight!”

 

You cast about wildly for a Pyrope-shaped lifeline, but she and Lalonde are currently causing a minor commotion at the other end of the dance floor, so you are most definitely on your own for this one.

 

“Miss Harley,” you manage. You can feel a blush creeping up your neck toward your face like the venom of the rare Indian Fohpah Viper, which is a thing you made up just now but if it was real its venom would creep like anything.

 

“Come now Karkat, 'Miss Harley' is dreadfully distant for someone with whom you've had dalliances,” she giggles. “Oh my God, I can't believe I actually said 'dalliances'! Speaking of which, you did run off quite suddenly after our last 'encounter'!” She winks slyly at you—your brain seizes up. “And as you up and disappeared on me, I never had a chance to ask you: would you be interested in joining me for a romantic hunting expedition?”

 

Oh my God, no. This is it, Vantas. You have one shot at this. _Don't screw it up._

 

“Do you hear that,” you stutter. “I think Egbert is calling my name! I really must be going!”

 

Jade just stares at you, questioningly.

 

“Haha, I believe it must be really important. Can I get back to you on this later?”

 

She's still staring.

 

That's when you notice that the music has stopped, along with all movement in the hall. The crowd appears to be frozen in time, Jade included. Normally, this would be the point where you have a hysterical episode, but whatever just happened saved you from making what might have been the biggest mistake of your life. You silently thank God for the miracle, summon up your courage, and you are turning back to face Jade when you see movement out of your peripheral vision. You spin around, and that's when the music starts up again.

 

“Sorry, did you say something?” asks Jade, shaking her head dazedly. “I think I drifted off there for a second!”

 

“Yes, actually. I said that I would love to join you on your hunting trip.”

 

Her joyful squeal and the ensuing bone-crushing hug all but drive from your head the memory of an ugly hat bobbing through a frozen crowd.

 

\---

 

The outing is a rousing failure. Over the course of an entire day spent tramping through the countryside, the two of you manage to bag absolutely nothing. It's not that you don't encounter any game—on the contrary, you find plenty. The problem lies with the enormous blunderbuss that Jade insisted on bringing along, as it instantly reduces anything she shoots at to unsalvagable giblets. Nevertheless, you find yourself having a grand old time, and at the end of the trip you and Jade cheerfuly traipse home, leaving behind the gore-spattered heath for the warmth and comfort of her hunting lodge, where the both of you talk long into the night.

 

You find your rather solitary life now has a new occupant, one who drags you off on unpredictable adventures at the drop of a hat. Before you return to university, she convinces you to help her test out some inventions she's been working on, leading to your near-death on several occasions. On one memorable occasion, the two of you spend an afternoon hiding in a tree to avoid Lady English, who was incensed by the “accidental” detonation of several of her favorite gilded lawn ornaments.

 

When holidays end, Jade sends you back to university with a kiss and a slap on the rear; you blush furiously. Lectures resume, bringing with them the crushing weight of schoolwork, but for some reason you don't mind. You deal with both dons and essays with such a pleasant mein that your schoolmates become alarmed. Jade comes to visit you periodically, sometimes to involve you in another madcap escapade, and sometimes just to sit on your bed and help you with your manuscript. Her ideas tend to resemble something out of a penny dreadful as opposed to a chivalric romance, but it's the thought that counts. 

**Author's Note:**

> and that's it.
> 
> thanks, as always, go to the marvelous lantadyme for proof-reading.


End file.
